


Closest Thing to a Midlife Crisis

by Ponderosa



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Awkward Flirting, First Time, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Open Marriage, Polyamory, RPF, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 00:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5069974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponderosa/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things said about his status as a sex symbol in the press, this is perhaps the one thing that Colin concedes wholeheartedly is true: he's a fucking great kisser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closest Thing to a Midlife Crisis

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the zillion people who read this along the way and listened to me complain about it. Extra thanks as usual to Blue Soaring.

“Another? You’re popular today,” Livia says when Colin glances at his mobile. It rests heavily upon the table, silver-rimmed and dark until a text message lights the screen. The message is the third in a matter of minutes. “Is it Taron?”

He attempts a noncommittal sound.

Livia returns to typing, the sound rhythmic and comforting, all part of this familiar evening routine that might at any moment be interrupted by her utilizing him as a sounding board to sort out her thoughts. Tonight there’s no interruption but that of his making, as Livia’s mouth tips towards a smile when another set of messages light up his mobile in quick succession. Colin catches a glimpse of a colorful burst of emoji. “Must be Taron,” she says.

“Must be?”

The wry look she casts over the edge of her laptop skewers him straight through. “At this hour you’d put it away if it were anybody else.”

He can’t argue with that. Not when he’s had his mobile out since the first drunkenly enthusiastic message _(Colin!! I’m out with some mates. Are your ears burning?? Missing you. Can’t wait to see you next week. ::kissyface:: ::winkyface::)_ instead of safely in his pocket where it could have racked up a dozen messages and calls with him none the wiser. Mildly irritated with himself, Colin flips his mobile face down and pushes his chair back from the table to continue paging through the paper.

“The boy has a crush on you,” Livia remarks, using a tone that often precedes unasked-for advice. That her advice is so often faultless doesn’t lessen the prickle of annoyance that sends him shifting in his chair.

Hoping that a bit of humour will put a wrench in the gears turning so very obviously in Livia’s head, Colin replies, “Well I should hope he’s sweet on me, I’ve been wooing him for months.”

Livia pauses again in her typing and Colin doesn’t need to look her to way to know precisely the expression on her face as she says, “ _I_ know you are joking when you say that, but does he? You’ve paid him lots of attention. More than most.” Her tone carries a hint of concern, and not for his benefit.

Folding the paper back on itself, Colin rereads the same paragraph for a third time. “I’m far too old for him, darling, be serious,” he murmurs.

“You haven’t had a lover in a long while,” she says, switching to Italian as she often does whenever topics of the heart are discussed.

“Indeed I have not.”

“Pity. I imagine he would be very good in bed.”

*

It’s nearing eight in the morning of what promises to be a terribly long day. A mug of coffee warms Colin’s hand, and if there’s one thing he can be grateful for it’s that he’s not facing a string of interviews jet-lagged and weary. The exhaustion will come at the evening screening when the time difference catches up with him.

For now he can simply enjoy being up and about and not needing to muster conversation beyond vague hellos and the state of the weather. It’s a comfortable haze of nothingness that continues up until Taron appears at his elbow to fill his own cup from the carafe.

Seeming a touch more alert, Taron surveys the spread laid out by the hotel catering. “Pastries any good?” he asks. He’s sharply dressed in a crisp white shirt and form-fitting dark denim. Spots of color brighten his cheeks from having gone outside into the chill December air for a cigarette. He’s stood near enough that Colin can feel the heat of his body.

“I confess I’ve not had anything besides this,” Colin replies, raising his coffee. He lifts a finger from the cup to point towards his publicist, a merciless stereotype of a New Yorker typing furiously on her mobile. “Probably I’ll need to eat something while she’s watching or she’ll fuss.”

Taron’s smile starts wide and blossoms into something dazzling. He plucks a plump muffin from a tray. “You haven’t been answering my texts,” he says, an observation, possibly a question by the raise of his brow. Taron nibbles at the crumb-topping and ends up having to lick specks of sugar from his lips. Colin pretends not to notice. “Well, not many of them.”

_I imagine he would be very good in bed._

“I answered the important ones,” Colin says, and tries to sound neither coy nor peevish when he adds, “You never answer when I ring.”

Taron jostles Colin with a shoulder, says, “I _hate_ talking on the phone and you know it,” and settles beside him with a vaguely nervous unease that speaks of not feeling assured of his place. They’ve texted rather a lot up until this month, but it’s been ages since they’ve seen one another in the flesh; San Diego seems like a few lifetimes ago. Colin longs to wrap him in a hug and greet him properly but finds himself saying, “The hallmark of your generation,” and smiles when Taron laughs somewhat ruefully.

Before he can admit just how very pleased he is to see Taron again or offer that belated hug, a PC armed with a clipboard appears to herd them each towards makeup. The disappointment that hits him is remarkably sharp given that with the junket, the chat shows, and the string of red carpets from here to Italy, they’ll be seeing plenty of one another. The little voice in his head that occasionally pops up and sounds an awful lot like Mark has some choice words about his affection towards Taron, and as he argues with himself while in the makeup chair, he can’t help but recall Mark’s actual words: _You can’t adopt every promising young actor that looks at you like you shit rainbows._

Historically, Mark was frequently in the right, and it annoys Colin to no fucking end.

After being prepped for the lights there’s trading a second cup of coffee for a bottle of water, a rundown of the schedule, a break to use the toilet, and finally begins the parade of interviewers. By the third or fourth the talking points become rote and all the difficulty of finding new ways to say the same things begins.

Unsurprisingly most of the questions come his way first, but whenever the focus is on Sophie or Taron, they do a masterful job of supporting one another in their answers. Things will be assuredly different as Taron’s career develops, when he’s no longer a virtual unknown. Taron's supportiveness isn't likely to change but there's a point when the reality of success hits and one has to deal with knowing the majority of your drama school contemporaries remain struggling.

He has no doubt of the lad’s bright future, particularly when Taron has grown so much more confident since that first run of press. A bit of pride hits Colin; it’s always a pleasure to witness his advice do a bit of good, and he smiles just a bit more deeply the next time Taron speaks highly of him.

Adding to the budding glow, Taron’s faint standoffishness recedes like a tide as they share the same space. In no time whatsoever he’s back to feeling comfortable enough to reach over and put a hand on Colin’s arm whenever Colin says something particularly cheeky or clever. 

Naturally the urge to purposefully provoke Taron only grows as the day wears on, and Colin is forced to watch his wit and prevent himself from getting into any trouble on camera. As he’s holding his tongue and pretending to care what the interviewers are saying, he finds he can’t entirely stop sneaking glances at Taron and fantasizing about having him over for Christmas dinner or taking him along to Los Angeles in a few weeks time. Either would be a logistical nightmare in practice; still, it’s a nice thought, and more entertaining than silently wagering with himself over how many more mentions of Darcy there will be by the end of the day.

*

There’s a mid-afternoon press event that Colin ducks out of in order to catch a quick nap up in his room. In the moments before he manages to doze off, memories float to the surface of filming and the long stretches between takes, when Taron had initially been so very polite in letting him natter on before Taron grew comfortable enough for the conversation to become less one-sided.

On-set friendships can be difficult to retain after filming. How lucky he is that he and Taron got on so well.

The bit of sleep keeps him going for the remainder of the evening, but after the introductions at the cinema and the brief photo ops are over with, Colin’s just about run into the ground. It’s barrelling towards two in the morning across the Atlantic, and he’s thrilled to be able to say his farewells and leave Sam--a man blessed with endless energy--to deal with the fans post-screening.

Looking a touch worn-down himself, Taron escapes alongside him. His breath steams in the air as he grumbles good-naturedly about not having time for a smoke. Colin pats him on the arm as the driver brings the car around.

A thousand things to say come to mind, most of them trivial but a few that are less inappropriate than they are abrupt, words too serious for the lateness of the hour--or perhaps not serious enough--but the last thing Colin wants is to shatter the gentle ease of Taron's manner.

They’re halfway back to the hotel when Taron breaks the hush of the hired car and says, “I’ve bought you something. A Christmas present.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’ve brought it with me. To New York, I mean, not that I’m carrying it on my person." Taron gestures as he speaks, though not as expansively as when in front of an audience or when fully engaged with a topic. “I think we’re on the same floor. Stop by my room before you turn in and I’ll give it to you now.”

Colin determinedly drags his mind out of the gutter. “How very kind of you. Can I open it immediately?”

The look Taron gives him could peel paint. “Of course not, it’s a Christmas present.”

“You know they warn travelers about accepting mysterious packages prior to a flight.” He’s told Taron before about how times have changed with regards to travel--ashtrays in the airline seats, not having to take one’s shoes off--and also the ways that it hasn’t--threats on the tube, ever-shrinking luggage compartments, but he reiterates, going on a for a few about the theatre of airport security in America.

Taron laughs and fidgets, crossing one leg over the other and immediately threading his arm through like he’s trying to mimic a pretzel. It tips him towards Colin who leans towards the contact at first unconsciously and then with a measure of purpose. Taron doesn’t shy away from the press of his shoulder in the least, rather the opposite, giving him a bodily nudge as he says, “Colin, I promise it’s not some clever plot to blow something up and I swear I’m not trying to trick you into becoming my drug mule!”

“Thank goodness that fate lies with someone else. Is it going to embarrass me going through the scanner?”

“Embarrass you?” Taron’s grin wavers between scandalized and mischievous. “Are you telling me you don’t regularly carry massive sex toys with you?”

“There’s hardly room in my case for anything else,” Colin replies, and wonders briefly if there will suddenly be rumours on the internet about his luggage. Better, he supposes, than if he were to slip an arm around Taron right now and nudge the boy’s face towards him.

He keeps his hands to himself even as there’s more laughter, more silliness, more leaning until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder like a pair of drunks trying to keep one another upright. He can smell the mix of shampoo and product in Taron’s hair and the blocks go by far too quickly. Soon enough they’re forced apart, strolling through the dimly-lit lobby and into the small elevator where the paneled wood and the close quarters makes the space between them feel intimate.

Every bit of him wants to turn towards Taron, to press against him and frame that sweet face in his hands and learn the language of his kisses. To feel him thicken up in his trousers and watch his eyes go heavy.

Or at the very least to ask if Taron really does fancy him.

But the floors count up and then he’s trailing along cotton-headed and feeling his age while Taron displays a burst of renewed energy. That dazzling smile gets turned his way again as Taron opens the door to his room and says, “Hold on. It’s in my luggage.”

“Is there an actual gift?” he asks, politely waiting near the foot of the bed while Taron sheds his coat and proceeds to dig around in his case. “Or was this simply a ruse in order to get me to your room alone and unchaperoned?”

“If I’d known it were that easy, I would’ve asked you to come up and see my etchings months ago,” Taron teases. He spins around, a small square box wrapped in paper and ribbons in hand. He holds it out at arm’s length for Colin to take and says, “I was kidding earlier, you can open it now if you like.”

By the size and weight he already has a guess as to what it is, and he isn’t disappointed, neither by the mug when he's uncovered it or the way Taron grins hopefully at him as he turns it around in his hands.

“I could kiss you,” Colin says, tucking it back in the box safe and sound.

“I’d love that,” Taron replies, a bit breathy and far too quickly for it to be anything other than at the very forefront of his mind. He colors and shifts his weight, as if he’s scrambling to find a way to diffuse the statement that isn’t pointlessly rearranging the pillows near at hand.

Colin lays a hand on Taron’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. The flush spreads all the way to the boy’s ears. “I’ll have you know that Livia will be delighted to know she’s right, but not only am I too tired at the moment to properly be having this discussion, I wouldn’t be able to reach her at this hour,” Colin reluctantly says. Mornings are for the kids first and then her focused work hours, and though she’s been suggesting he pursue Taron, he isn’t about to make a rash decision without making certain she hasn’t changed her mind. He sighs; his bed will be very cold indeed. “Though to be clear I’d very much like to come back to this. You said you were staying on a day? How about you message me when you’re back in London and we’ll sort it all out.”

“Um, yeah, alright. Sounds good,” Taron says, vaguely stunned. He scrapes his teeth over his lip and shifts his weight. In two blinks the dazed expression melts into something heavy-lidded and hungry.

“Lovely,” Colin tells him, and makes himself scarce before he does something completely foolish.

*

Between the very long flight and returning home to two children stuck sniffling and coughing on holiday, sorting things out with Taron doesn’t happen immediately. In fact it’s never a proper conversation as one minute he and Taron are texting back and forth about Christmas dinner and family and in the next they’re busy exchanging flirty messages that unconsciously skirt the issue of how they might give this a go.

Colin doesn’t mind. It’s not much different than the past nine months, truth be told. Only now he’s a little more deliberate in his innuendo, and when Livia reads over his shoulder, she tells him he’s being too subtle.

“You should tell him how badly you want to suck him off,” she says, leaning over the back of Colin’s armchair as if half-ready to type the message in herself. With her suspicions confirmed, she’s grown only more determined to see him take Taron as a lover, or, in her words, _why should she always be the one out having fun._

“It’s a touch abrupt," Colin replies, darting a glance towards the door but there's no one to overhear. Livia's brothers are busy running the kids ragged outdoors like good uncles.

“But also true.”

He has her take a photo of him with the mug instead. Taron sends back an avalanche of hearts in various shades of the rainbow.

The flirting comes to a near standstill as Colin begins the new year suffering through his own version of the kids’ cold. He goes through a few hundred tissues and even at his most miserable he continues to daydream about inviting Taron out here to the country for a few days or along with them to Los Angeles.

He doesn’t ask Taron to come to Italy, or to languish in a hotel room while he and Livia attend the Globes, but he does invite him to dinner on their return. It results in a string of crying emoji, a slew of apologies, and several very convincing assurances that he’s willing to cancel his plans. Colin won’t hear it, of course, but it does serve to bolster his ego a touch.

Enough that somewhere around eleven o’clock he’s staring at his mobile and typing in: _Livia and I were just discussing you. Were_ your _ears burning?_

A response comes more swiftly than Colin expects. _I might have felt a tingle,_ pops up, followed by a winkyface, and a heartbeat later: _Can’t say it was my ears getting warm though._

The meaning behind the shifty-eyed face and the winking little face blowing a heart _seems_ obvious. Colin rapidly types a reply, but his thumb hovers over the send button. There is a very clear line here and he’s struggling to come up with a reason to avoid crossing it. Though Livia’s busy reading proposals in her ground floor office, he imagines that he can hear her recent admonishments floating up to hover around him: _What’s the problem? Stop being so silly. Have your fun and let him have his fun._

He really can’t argue. If after all the vague flirtation he’s being presumptuous then they’ll have something to laugh about, and if he’s not-- The worst that can come of it is a little heartache. Before he can talk himself out of it, Colin hits send.

_I could show you..._ Taron writes back. As an offer, this too seems as blatant as can be, but if there’s one thing that Colin dislikes about texting it’s how difficult it is to put context and intent into brief messages. At least these days there were no longer character limits to contend with. He was even growing more accustomed to using emoji.

_Aren’t you busy with company?_

_We’re just at the pub. ::beers:: I can spare a ::clock:: or two. Hold on._

A giddy nervousness strikes him, the same sort of tremble in the belly that even after thirty-odd years of acting never quite goes away before the first take. It isn’t lost on him that the span of his career stretches well beyond Taron’s conception. The ten years between himself and Livia hadn’t felt like this, but she’d been far more worldly, and while some men may not have a problem with having trophy wives or midlife crisis flings-- The ramble of Colin’s thoughts come to a screeching halt and he stares at his reflection in the fingerprint-smudged face of his mobile for a moment before hastily opening up his contacts and ringing Mark.

“What’s on fire?” Mark asks without so much as a hello.

Colin fumbles his mobile from one hand to the other as he rises to his feet and begins to pace. “It’s late, I apologize, but do you recall telling me that I was being an idiot?”

“Frequently. You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

The buzz in his hand says Taron’s messaged him again. “Sorry. About this…er, _thing_ \-- With-- With Taron.”

“At least his mum has better taste,” Mark says, never failing to make a dig about when someone fancies him more. “Now are you bothering me so you can ignore my sage advice, or are you shamelessly seeking an enabler?”

“I don’t know, to be honest, but I worry I’m only feeling this way because I’m in the throes of a midlife crisis. It’s not inconceivable. In fact it might be overdue. I’ve never bought a sports car. Also, I think he’s just sent me a photo of his cock.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m admittedly a little frightened to discover whether or not I’m right.”

“As someone who is revoltingly pleased with his home life, you’re the last man I know to be having a midlife crisis,” Mark says. His heavy exhale has Colin picturing him pinching the bridge of his nose. “But if the lad is sending you dick pics, you’d better fucking respond. Otherwise he’s probably thinking he’s made a terrible mistake and considering if he should be walking into traffic right about now.”

“You’re no help at all.”

“Get off the line, send him a photo back or do whatever it is you’re going to do, and you can tell me all about it tomorrow at a decent hour.”

There’s a mild tremor in his hand as he hangs up and stares at the little red number perched atop the message app. It’s a distinctively illicit thrill that reminds him of the days before internet pornography, of being a teenager and finding a dirty magazine--even if the cover wasn’t racy it was the sheer promise of what awaited inside.

“I’m a fucking idiot,” Colin mutters, and opens the message thread.

It is both precisely what he expected and entirely the opposite. Chiefly the photo isn’t pornographic: Taken at chest level with his shirt tugged up, Taron is holding his flies open with one hand to show off the hard bulge in his pants. He’s standing in the toilets--no surprise--probably with his back leaned up against the door, and the longer Colin looks, the more he can discern the shape built out of shadow and fabric. 

He thinks about texting back, about what he’d say, but before he can there’s a call incoming, Taron’s name lit up on the screen.

“Bit of a tease, but I liked the photo,” he says, taking a cue from Mark and foregoing basic salutations.

“Did you? You didn’t say anything and-- You know, I was half calling to say I was sorry. I’m pissed if you couldn’t tell.”

“I couldn’t actually. There was hardly a typo in sight.”

“Filters go first, then the motor control.” Taron’s voice is echoey from the tile. He sounds excitable, like he’s on the verge of laughing. There’s the bang of a door and a burst of background noise, the chatter of the pub coming through like static. “Look, I can’t stay in here all night, my mates’ll be missing me in a second, but I’m just saying that if you want to return the favor, the minute I’m home I’ll send you something that’s less of a tease.”

“You might regret asking.”

“Oh _please,_ you’re gorgeous as fuck and you know it.”

After hanging up Colin considers it. He truly does. He even goes so far as to take a few photos, feeling absolutely ridiculous and aroused at turns. He can't quite bring himself to actually send any of them however and deletes the lot in one go.

_I've never done this before,_ he admits. He adds a blushing face for good measure.

_You're adorable,_ Taron sends back, which makes a bit of genuine heat rise in Colin’s face. _Hate to say it, but that only makes it hotter._

_Insofar as I know there's only one photo of my cock in existence. I’m not certain I should up that tally._

_Fuck off! OMG Colin, you’re killing me._

A few minutes later, another text comes in. Another shot or another pint, whatever Taron’s drinking, it’s affecting him and there are typos strewn into the mix. The meaning is clear enough: _You should know that every time I think about you sending me a pic, I get hard as nails._

For all that Colin will always prefer hearing a voice over the line and the efficiency of a phone call, he’s not a luddite and he can recognize the virtues of the medium. That Taron was across the city, squirming in his seat because of a few hardly even racy messages-- The advantages were clear.

Before setting his mobile aside, Colin sends him one last message: _I’m going to bed now, but that makes two of us. ...ps who knows when I might change my mind. love, C._

_OMG. Now who’s a bit of a tease!_

*

An hour before they need to be at Claridges for the junket, Colin gets a text that reads: _I want you to know I’m rubbing one out right now._

_Fantastic. Are you aware my wife has a habit of reading over my shoulder?_

_Fuck! Don’t tell me that! I’m mortified. Livia, I’m soooo sorry._

_It isn’t as if I’m hiding anything from her,_ Colin sends back. Livia kisses the top of his head and takes the phone from him to type in, _Didn’t mean to spy. Though Colin is terrible at sexting. -L_

_No, of course not, but that’s not the point, pops up and then, OMG. Hi Liv. Sorry, Liv._

When she hands his phone back, it reads: _If you want to get off hard, you should call him. -L_

_You can’t deny that she approves of you,_ Colin tells Taron, unable to keep from laughing when Livia does. __

_Still seems filthy somehow, her accidentally getting an eyeful of my cock._

_Oh, were you planning to follow up with another photo? I thought you were going to keep on with a bit of dirty talk. Either way, I could warn her._

_I’m going to die._

_Well, I’m going to ring you._

The bubble that says Taron is replying pops up, but Colin doesn’t wait for the message to come through before ringing him.

Taron sounds breathless when he answers.

Moreso, after Colin proves Livia right.

*

With the film premiering, the schedule for this junket is twice as long as the one at the Gramercy. It’s also mostly side-by-sides with Taron, who when he first sits himself down looks mildly embarrassed for a moment before he delivers a sideways glance that makes Colin warm under the collar.

“Ready?” Colin asks.

“Are you?”

“Never.”

And so it starts. There’s all the usual tedium, the endlessness of it rather a lot like what Colin imagines exists in certain circles of Hell. A few bright spots crop up here and there, like being given cause to rib Taron about his character’s habit of winking and how well he hid his nerves. If Taron has any jitters today about the film’s reception, he’s not showing it. Excitement bleeds through and occasionally impatience, a sentiment Colin can sympathize with. The morning’s culmination of weeks of back-and-forth, there’s little else he cares to do other than escort Taron to a quiet room with a large bed.

He makes do with leaning over occasionally to whisper something just shy of lewd.

*

Domestic premieres are a different beast entirely--simpler for him without the burden of travel but more of an affair for Livia who will get more press for her cause and have more friends in attendance. It makes the carpet more of a crawl, but also means with certain media he can hang back and let Livia take advantage of the spotlight.

He spots Taron almost immediately across the way, one hand slung in a pocket as he leans forward to listen attentively to a reporter's question. There's some emphatic headshaking and a face that can only mean he's talking about his troubles with George.

"All sorted I hope?" Mark says, appearing like the devil with a veiled glance towards Taron.

"Well enough.”

Mark claps him on the back and speaks into his ear to say, “Good. Great. And I don’t care to know a single thing about it, you pervert.”

“As if I’d kiss and tell.”

“As if you could hold your tongue to spare your life. I only endure it because I know you’ll always love me more. Just like--”

“If you say his mum I’m going to step on your foot.”

Mark laughs and gives him a one-armed hug. A feeling, golden and warm spreads through his chest. Cameras flash.

*

Enjoying Taron's company in a quiet room with a large bed goes from idle fantasy to reality in a matter of weeks.

"I won't save it, I promise," Taron assures, aiming the camera on his mobile at Colin. Or, more precisely, at Colin's hands poised somewhat protectively over his bare prick. Taron grins in a mixture of devilish glee and frustrated amusement. "Come on, It's _your_ wife asking."

"My wife should know better. And if it ends up on the Internet?"

"I don't sync anything, and even if I did and some nutter hacker decided to get into _my_ photos, your face isn't even in frame."

"I have very memorable thighs."

Taron laughs and it's an utterly delightful sound. "Okay, fine, I give up," Taron says, and sits back to type a quick message to Livia. "She's going to be so disappointed."

"She's going to say she told you so."

"All right, I've put my phone away now. It's safe to move your hands."

"I'm not entirely sure it is."

"I promise." Taron's gaze stays fixed on the spread of Colin's hands, some of the moment's mischief burned away by the heat building in it. "Please, I hardly got a chance to see anything at all before you covered up."

Colin's not nearly so full of himself that the _please_ sounds anything but absolutely lovely. 

He ceases playing at modesty to pull Taron back into a kiss. The awkward, stumbling start to it is entirely Taron’s fault as he twists and turns as if he really only is interested in an eyeful, but the broad curve of his mouth says that’s merely a diversionary tactic. Colin grabs for his wrist the same time he grabs for the open collar of Colin’s shirt, and happy accident or a testament to their combined will, it ends with Taron sprawled atop him and the soft rush of breath before their mouths meet.

“Hi,” Taron says, mid-kiss. He settles his weight more easily against Colin, the firm breadth of his thigh pressing earnestly against Colin’s hard cock. “Yes, hello. This is good.”

“Very,” Colin mumbles, shifting to get his own leg more firmly against the stiff bulge in Taron’s trousers. The warmth of pleasure that’s been settled in his limbs coalesces in his navel, spiking into a raw hit of lust as Taron’s tongue touches his. In a flash the heat spreads back through his veins like a firestorm, leaves his nerves tingling at the lightest of touches. It’s the same giddy thrill that’d seized him earlier when he’d been sat propped against the pillows thumbing through a magazine and Taron had stood up from the writing table to draw in a noisy breath and suggest that his room was just across the hall, so no one would notice or care if he were to stay until the wee hours.

Bless him for it, Colin thinks, because even now as he licks into Taron’s mouth it’s difficult to admit how much he’s charmed by the boy.

Unlike him, Taron's a lazy kisser, with a dreamy softness to the way his lips shift and part. He doesn’t try at all to keep up with the hunger for more that seizes Colin, his mouth pliant under the onslaught. Of all the things said about his status as a sex symbol in the press, this is perhaps the one thing that Colin concedes wholeheartedly is true: he's a fucking great kisser.

Taron seemingly agrees, breathy sounds of encouragement tumbling from him as he plucks at the remaining buttons of Colin's shirt. A smile drags across the corner of Colin's mouth as Taron pulls away to suck in a deep breath, his noisy exhale warm against Colin’s cheek as Colin turns to say, “Still aching for that look?” and catch his mouth again before he has a chance to answer.

The answering brush of knuckles traveling a determined line down Colin’s chest shrinks his skin to his bones, and he returns the favor, his hands stroking lightly along Taron’s back. The fabric of Taron’s tee is velvet-soft beneath his palms, and the sound Taron makes when Colin’s fingers curl under the hem to lift it away melts like sugar on his tongue. Oh, the moan comes with a good measure of frustration atop the thrill, as Taron’s hands are drawn up and away from exploring his prick, but it tips back towards pleasure the moment he's kicked off the last of his trousers and they’re pressed against one another, Taron’s body running a few degrees warmer, soft and lithe against his own. 

A part of him believes he could spend all night simply running his hands over Taron’s body, though truly he knows better. He’s far too impatient a lover for that sort of thing, and when after a minute or two more of aimless kisses and wandering hands Colin urges Taron to lay flat upon the bed, Taron goes to his belly eagerly.

He twists around to watch as Colin peels him free of his jeans and socks, leaving him in boxers that sit askew, elastics caught on the meaty curve of his arse. Colin pinches the hem of one leg and slowly tugs it down while Taron laughs and holds his hips up and asks if this is how the whole night’s going to go.

When Taron’s left naked and waiting, Colin kisses the back of his thigh and promises him that it’ll be far more awkward and halting. Taron bites at his lip and the beautiful sound of his laugh is interrupted by a sharp inhale the moment Colin licks a wide, wet stripe along the crease of his thigh.

The walls aren't terribly thin here, but Taron seems to be doing his damnedest to keep the volume down. Certainly he hadn't been this quiet over the line, when he'd had a hand on himself and listened to Colin describe rimming him in great detail. Spreading him wide and tonguing a filthy kiss straight on his hole gets a proper moan out of him, a moan and a weak attempt to rut against the duvet.

Colin pauses once the rutting grows more desperate, Taron flat against the bed and swearing.

"Shall I continue or let you finish?" Colin asks. He brushes back the hair from his forehead.

Taron gets back up on his knees and reaches to swat at him. "Go on," Taron says, the hitch in his breath exhilaration or exasperation or perhaps both in good measure.

Colin's laugh becomes a smile, becomes sucking kisses to mark the pale skin between the scatter of moles dotting Taron's hip. He trades soft flicks of his tongue for a crescendo of shaky _oh- oh- oh my god_ s and when his thumb dips inside unyielding silken flesh, a tug and swirling lick has Taron clenching down so tight it draws him in to the knuckle.

He alternates between thumb and tongue and forefinger, opening Taron up rather singlemindedly, not noticing how very hard he is himself until he pauses to enjoy the sight of Taron with his head pillowed on his arms and a faint quiver in his thighs.

A kiss dropped near the dimples on Taron's back hits a ticklish spot and Taron gasps, bucking and twisting halfway round. Colin's gaze goes straight to the boy’s cock, so hard it's wet-tipped and gleaming.

"Gorgeous," Colin tells him, echoing the same praise Taron's lobbed his way more than once since this tour started. 

"Oh, stop it." 

"Beyond gorgeous. Brilliant. Talented," Colin says, hands sweeping up Taron's flanks as he settles himself on the bed beside the boy. His gaze lifts to meet and hold Taron’s. "But enough about me, don’t you think?"

Taron’s eyes grow comically wide, his mouth falling open in a silent laugh. He props himself up on an elbow, any admonishments falling to the wayside when he licks his lip and rolls towards Colin, starts up with kissing him and mumbles against his mouth, "I'm gonna--" before inching down the bed.

Colin tangles fingers in his hair almost instantly, nails scratching lightly against Taron’s scalp. 

"Lovely boy," he breathes. His hands ache to pull and guide, to bring Taron into a rhythm that will get him off fast and hard. He suffers through Taron's penchant for slow and thorough, the vicious pleasure of it, and of the way Taron glances up at him between lazy dips of his head.

He looks almost too sweet sprawled half across Colin's lap. Taron has seemed naïve in his eyes, but never innocent. He certainly looks the part however, lashes curving low as he rubs his mouth along the full length of Colin's cock and rewets his lips, tongue bright pink and delicate.

"Want to take that picture now?" Taron asks, mouth poised and open.

"Yes," Colin replies, though he doesn't make a move to do anything but watch. He'll remember this moment vividly enough that it doesn't seem worth the delay.

At a certain point, when he's grown too impatient for the teasing swirl of Taron’s tongue he does snap that shot, blurry though it ends up, and pulls Taron up to sit astride him to take a look. With a lip biting grin, Taron sends it off to Livia, laughing a second later when she responds near immediately, the cheery ping of the message cutting through the ragged sound of Taron's breath.

Taron types a message back, each letter sending a tremor through the muscles of his thighs. He seems ready to carry on and compose a novel, and Colin knows full well his wife will continue to encourage the lad. He sighs and shifts as another ping echoes through the room. Not having the spotlight and being ignored are very different things, and Colin wets his palm with a lick to draw Taron’s attention back to more pressing matters.

It's his fist slid over them both that gets Taron gasping and desperate again, hips jerking in a rapid staccato. "Okay, okay, sorry. I-- Oh, fuck." The phone tumbles from Taron's fingers into the tangle of the bedding.

Colin has rarely felt an enthusiasm for the truly messy parts of sex, but the way Taron gazes down at him is enough to make him reconsider his stance on the money shot. There's a glimmer of "oh my god, it's Colin freakin' Firth between my legs" but the awestruck phase lasts half a blink before skipping to a pornographic level of possessiveness. Taron intends to either devour him alive or simply fuck into his hand until Colin's left come-streaked and wanting for more.

As it happens it's somewhere more towards the latter. Taron's arms have slipped to curl over Colin's shoulders, his mouth open and panting against the hair softly curling at Colin's temple. His cock is hot glide against Colin's, precome smearing between the spread of his fingers. Taron swears like a sailor when Colin shifts his grip to more fully sheathe the push of Taron's cock. He shudders beautifully when he comes, hips seizing in short, fitful jerks before he twists enough to reach down and feel Colin get himself off in turn.

"Fuck," Taron says, exhilarated and smiling as he tumbles into the space beside Colin. The mattress dips and Colin wraps an arm around him, encouraging him to stay close.

"You've made a mess of me," Colin says wryly, wishing he'd thought to fetch a flannel beforehand. It takes no time at all to go from rapturously content to uncomfortably sticky. He untangles himself from the drape of Taron's limbs and goes to clean himself up, returning to crack open a bottle of water and nearly drain it dry. He hands the remainder to Taron. "Going back to your room?"

Up on one elbow to drink, Taron admits he'd rather not. He rattles the sip or two left in the bottom of the plastic bottle before finishing it off, then hangs half off the side of the bed to leave it on the floor rather than move enough to deposit it onto the nearest solid surface.

"Stay," Colin says with hardly a thought otherwise.

Taron rolls onto his back rather like a cat caught settling into fresh laundry. He stretches out as his face scrunches adorably. "Are you sure?"

"Not in the least," Colin replies, returning to him. He plucks his fallen mobile from the sheets and sends a quick message to Livia. "Luckily my wife has excellent judgment."

"Don't you dare kick him out," he reads aloud, turning the screen for proof.

"Guess that means she truly likes me," Taron preens, and Colin allows himself to be pulled back into bed.


End file.
